Skeletons In The Closet
by Beck Blackstone
Summary: A collection of short horror stories inspired by Stephen King. Before I Begin: The story of a boy with MPD, as told by himself, those surrounding him, and his other self. All original works cBeck Blackstone
1. Before I Begin pt 1

Before I begin, I'm going to describe her to you, the way I see her. I suppose that a lot of people will disagree with me and say that I flatter her too much, and I suppose that's true. But this is what she's like, the way I see her.  
She's beautifully curved, like a sculpture made of white marble. Not a model body; she's too curvy and too short to qualify to be one, and I know because that's what she wanted to do, model. She's 5"5, just an inch below model requirements. It always used to drive her mad, that one inch she was missing. She blamed it on her mother, who left her for her father to pick up at the hospital, never to be heard of again until hours before her mother was found dead; she blew her own brains out in a motel 70 miles away. The autopsy said her she was 5"4.  
I'm getting off topic, sorry. But there's just so much about her that I think you should know. Just know she existed and this is who she was.  
Back to her appearance. Her face is oval shaped, but her chin comes to a perfectly square point at the bottom of her angular and symmetrical face. She had hit her chin on a wall corner when she was little and, testifying to the event, there was a tiny scar on the underside of her chin where she split it open on that wall.  
Her cheeks and lips were eternally rosy, even in death they retained colour. The coroner said it was because she had been left lying face down, so what blood was left pooled there. That made me sick; to think that some awful person had left her face down.  
Ah, I loved her lips! Particularly her lower lip. It was round, soft and pouty. The first time I saw her was at the Christmas talent show at our highschool. She sung Santa, Baby. I watched that pouty lip of hers the entire time. Her voice is beautiful too, with an alto-soprano range. She wanted to be in broadway if she couldn't be a model.  
She had long, pale eyelashes, the colour of wheat. If you looked at her closely you could see the way they touched her rosy cheeks when she closed her eyes, which were the colour of maple syrup. She hated her eyes; she wanted to have blue eyes, like her mother did. The one trait that her mother had that she wanted wasn't passed down to her. But I loved her eyes, and that made her cheeks dimple as she smiled at me. She had a wonderful smile too, did I mention it already? I might mention it again. Tell me if I do. Because, no matter what was happening, if she smiled at me, I'd just feel pure elation  
_(except for that last smile it made me retch what a sick smile that person had given her)_  
Except for the way she was smiling when she was on that metal tray. The coroner said someone had pulled her face like that just after she died and they put her face down in the crate.  
I burned that crate. They stopped holding it for evidence and I asked for it. I wasn't really expecting to get it, but I did. Maybe the psychiatrist had something to do with it.  
Oh! I've forgotten her hair  
_(there was some in the crate when i burned it and oh god the smell)_  
It was a pretty auburn that both reflected and absorbed sunlight. It lit up when sun hit it, and the sun seemed to reside in her hair for hours to come; it glowed in the dark in a way.  
_(but was it glowing when she was on the metal tray was it was it no because that person had kept her in the basement that basement five blocks away)_  
At least it did to me. She gave me a lock of her hair once and I have it with me right now.  
_(i burned her hair the hair from the crate why why didn't i get it out of the crate why)_  
I put the lock of hair in the ring she gave me; it's one of those pill box rings, the kind old women keep their pills in for when they go out. Mine is silver with emeralds inlaid into it, and it resides on my wedding finger. It was her grandmothers on her dad's side who had arthritis so it fit her swollen woman's fingers and fit my slender male wedding finger. I rather like her dad, I always have. I'm worried for him right now but he's strong. I think he'll keep on going even if he doesn't keep that liveliness he had before  
_(before it was done before that awful smile and her horrible open sightless eyes that followed you as you ran out of the morgue to retch in the linoleum hallway as people passed you and snickered because they all thought it was you was it you was it you because they still think it's you it's you who dunnit that's what the detective said to you are you the killer are you shane are you a killer) _   
she was put in the crate. He still has his mother and his father alive so he's not alone.  
Right, I'm off topic again, sorry.  
So I've gone through her body, her face, her eyes, and her hair, and my ring.  
I gave her a ring too, she was wearing it when it  
_(oh shane what a child you are you still don't want to say what it is do you well I'll say it she was killed and was it you shane are you the killer are you) _  
happened. Ironically it was my grandmother's engagement ring. Of course, we weren't engaged, we couldn't have been because I'm 17 and she's   
_(silly silly shane abbreviations don't make it any better it's she was she was not she's because that's an abbreviation for she is but she isn't don't you know that silly shane because she's dead silly are you the killer silly shane)_  
16, but I gave her the ring anyway. Its silver, like mine, but with a small diamond in the middle. It has little amethysts around the diamond and on the top of the band. She'd giggle when people asked her about it, and her giggle was so cute it made you smile. It made everyone smile, and she giggled around me a lot so I smiled a lot. It hurts my face to smile now.  
I think I'm done describing her now because I don't want to waste paper  
_(she hated when i wasted paper because she wanted to be the president of greenpeace and meet david suzuki why didn't i make it happen oh why) _  
_(and they're coming for you silly shane don't you know that you have precious minutes to write it silly shane silly silly do you really care about paper because are you the killer silly shane are you)_  
and the police are coming, I think, because they think I did it. But here, on this paper, I need to write this, because-  
I'll just write what the coroner and the detective told me.  
They reproduced a semi-accurate telling of what might have happened.  
_(but it happened and you know it did because are you the killer silly shane are you)_  
She was walking home from work (the local Black's Photography kiosk) when she met up with someone, probably someone she knew and recognized. They went off course and started walking to the west instead of northeast.  
Five blocks off of her route home they went into a house, 1126 Yale street. I'll never forget that address.  
It was the house of a 97 year old man who lived alone with no living relations left. The neighbours said he was senile but harmless. He was found upstairs, lying in bed, dead of a heart attack. The coroner told me he died 5 days before she and that person even entered the house, and that he smelled awful.  
Anyway, they watched TV for a while and the person made her some macaroni and cheese, which was her favorite food. Two hours afterward her dad tried calling her cell which had the batteries taken out, apparently without her knowledge, because she broke the 9 key and the 1 key by pressing them as hard as she could an hour before her dad called, minutes before she died.  
She and the person went down to the basement, and she showed signs of resisting when they hit the 1st landing. The person was carrying her on their shoulder and she was kicking and scratching; her nails, painted red at the time, were stuck in the soft wood walls as she tried to claw the wall to get away. The neighbours said they heard screaming and assumed it was the TV.  
The person tried to force her in the box but she bit them; there was flesh and blood in her mouth and under her nails, so the person took her by her squared chin and round forehead, and snapped her neck.  
It took her 10 minutes to die, slowly suffocating, her limbs useless in paralysis. Then the person pulled that smile onto her face and lay her face down  
_(face down with a smile the best smile she had silly shane you know why because she was dead and that made me smile are you the killer did you kill her did you)_  
in a crate from her father's soap manufacturing business, Jameson Soaps & Co.  
The person nailed the crate shut.  
A day later a caretaker came to visit Mr. Andy Housser, the 97 year old man who was dead in bed. The caretaker found him. The same day a demolishing team started cleaning out the house when they found her.  
The coroner told me the flesh and blood under her nails and in her mouth matched someone. The hair on the couch matched the same person, along with the fingerprints on the remote for the TV and doorknobs.  
The detective told me that they matched me.  
_(that's right silly shane they matched they matched)_  
But that can't be me!  
_(are you the killer silly shane)_  
I can hear sirens now  
_(they're coming to take you away ha ha)_  
but I need you to know.  
My name is Shane Trow and I loved Tammy Salton.  
_(but I have no name and you are the killer because I am the killer and you know what silly shane we're the same the very same and I'm laughing because I can hear the sirens too and we killed her shane we killed her shane we did it and you are the killer you killed your love tammy salton and I'm laughing at you silly shane silly silly YOU ARE THE KILLER SILLY SHANE WE ARE THE KILLER WE ARE)_


	2. Before I Begin pt 2

Before I begin I should tell you something very important about myself.  
I'm dead.  
I want to tell you how I died and how confused I am now that I am a nonbeing. It probably won't matter to anyone, and no one will believe you if you say anything. But it will matter to me and I ask you to listen.  
Two weeks ago I started walking home from work. I worked at a Black's Photography kiosk. That day I was sorting and displaying photo frames and cameras in our picture window for our fall sale. I loved fall, it was my favorite season.  
As I was walking I met up with someone. I don't think I'll tell you who but know that I loved him dearly and he loved me back.  
_(but only half of him loved me oh my)_  
I'll describe him to you. He's 5"9, lanky but well muscled, with long limbs and not much torso. His eyes are hazel, and reminded me of tea with lots of cream in it. He has really bad eyesight, and some jocks had smashed his glasses the day we met. He walked into me that day, actually. He was squinting and he couldn't see properly; he thought I was much farther that I actually was and he knocked me over.  
He's silly in a sort of awkward way. It's cute. We went on a date later on the day that he walked into me. We exchanged rings, and I gave him a lock of my hair, and he gave me a lock of his. I kept it in a locket that I was wearing when I died.  
His hair is blonde on the top, bleached by the sun, and dark sandy blonde on the bottom. It was cut jaggedly by his younger sister.   
His voice is surprisingly deep for someone so small and thin. His mother described it to me as sugar for the ears, which made him blush like a grade school kid.  
He has his initials tattooed onto his forearm, and his left ear pierced. His dad beat him when he came home the night he got the tattoo and piercing. God, his dad was horrible. Back to what I was saying. He once tried to grow a goatee too, but it didn't work out well. He just looked like he hadn't shaved in a while and it made me giggle. Whenever I laughed he smiled at me, this great, white, genuinely-happy smile that made me feel like I was glowing. He had a silver tooth towards the back of his mouth, but I knocked it out. I'll tell you how.  
Sorry, back to my story about how I died. It's hard for me to stay on topic; it always was. As I said, I got off work and met up with him. We started walking. He told me a friend of his had left his house to go on a vacation with his parents. We started walking to the west, and he held my hand as we walked. His hands were warm and soft, not clammy at all, which seems surprising to me now.  
The house was a dilapidated two storey house on a quiet residential street. The address was 1126 Yale street. I don't think I'll ever forget that, not until the moment my spirit fades away and I'm gone for good.  
He made me macaroni, which I love. It was all I ate when I was little because it was all my dad could cook at the time. My mother left him and shot her head off the night I was born, and I was a hard handful for him to take care of alone.  
Let's return to 1126 Yale street. We turned on a movie but didn't end up watching much of it. We were too preoccupied with making out on the soft, worn corduroy couch. I remember it was maroon.  
He led me down to the basement holding my hand. I asked him why we couldn't go upstairs. He just looked at me oddly and pulled me down the next two stairs. I tried to shake him off, but  
_(I said it myself he's lanky but well muscled and his hands were strong and dry oh my why didn't I just say no and go home when I met up with him?)_  
he held on tight. I scratched his hand. He let go and I started to run. But he was on the track team and he got to me right when I got two steps above the first landing. He picked me up and put me on his shoulder. I kicked, I bit, I screamed, I squirmed and I scratched. My nails tore his shirt and made his back bleed. I tried clawing up the walls futilely, and I lost three fingernails. My middle fingernail, my thumbnail and my pointer finger nail on my left hand stuck in the soft, slowly rotting wood that covered the walls. My right hand held onto the banner but slid down as he walked because my hands were slippery from sweat.  
I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket. He seemed extremely non-concerned about that. I tried dialing 911 but nothing happened. Hysterically I pressed the buttons and they broke off. I dropped the phone. I think he took out the batteries or something.  
The way he held my legs prevented me from kicking him hard; he had his left arm around my waist (which was on his shoulder) and with his left arm he held my knees to his chest, my calves pulled off to the side, under his left armpit. He wasn't even sweating. I remember thinking crazily that my diet must have worked, look how light I was!  
There was an open crate from my dad's soap company sitting open before in the piles of junk in the basement, which smelled of mould, mildew, and cat piss.  
He tried putting me into the big crate, but as soon as he stopped restraining me I attacked him. I bit hard into his forearm, where his initials are tattooed, and he yelled in anger. It was the loudest, most rage-filled sound I'd ever heard him make. For a moment I forgot I was biting him and stopped the pressure. He hit me in the face and I fell on the cold, wet, stone ground and I wondered if I was sitting in cat piss before I looked up at him.  
His eyes weren't tea-brown anymore. Somehow they were ice blue, like frozen steel, and somehow he was smiling.  
I realized in a split second it was not him trying to shove me in a box. That wasn't my man, who was sweet and gentle with milk-in-tea brown eyes. There was someone else behind those eyes, using that body. Someone with blue eyes, someone who wanted to kill me.  
He was leaning down to pick me up again and I punched him square in the mouth. I knocked out that silver tooth and felt a surge of pride and guilt. But then he kicked me in the stomach. He was wearing metal-toed boots that I had bought him and there were resounding cracks as two of my ribs broke. I keeled over and tried to regain my breath as my eyes flooded with tears.  
My ribs had broken and punctured my lungs. I was dying already.  
Gently he kneeled down and put his soft hands on my forehead and chin.  
I looked up into his face with tears brimming in my eyes.  
He grinned as he jerked my head to the left and my neck broke. I lost sensation and mobility instantly.  
He picked me up easily, set me in the box and stroked my hair as I died.  
For ten miserable minutes my life flashed before my eyes, how I wanted to be a prominent member of greenpeace, how I wanted to meet David Suzuki, how I wanted to be a model, or work in Broadway, and how much time I had thought I had left to do those things. My ragged breath was loud in my ears, but not as loud as his quiet, taunting chuckle that made me want to run away. But of course I couldn't, I was a cripple by then, and when I thought that I almost laughed. I never thought once in my life I'd end up crippled.  
I cried, repulsed by the person controlling my love's body as it stroked my hair and smiled down at me while every breath was a tearing, burning, agony and there was blood in my slack mouth.  
Death wasn't painful itself. It felt like floating as I faded into nonbeing, becoming as I am now, a nonbeing, an entity of nothingness.  
I watched from above and saw how he pulled the skin of my face into a strange, sick smile, and he laughed. He sounded crazy, like the men at in the psych wards in the hospital where I volunteered when I was 12. He pulled my eyes open and rolled me onto my front before he nailed the soap crate with my body in it shut and left.  
I explored the house and discovered the dead old man and the dead cats in the back yard, all with their necks wrung. I watched the orderly find the dead old man, and I watched the cleanup crew pull out the nails in my crate, and how the man in the hardhat had thought I was a mannequin. His nametag said he was Andy Seale. He rolled me over. This look of horror took over his face at the speed that lightning strikes the earth. I feel bad about that still. And yes, nonbeings have feelings. Maybe it's just a memory of the way guilt feels, the way it hangs in your chest and makes you feel 100 pounds heavier.  
But of course I can't feel quite like that anymore; I'm nothing. Less than air.  
Well, Andy Seale called his superior, who called the police. They took photos of the house, the dead cats, and my vacated dead body. The detective & CSIs lifted prints and hair and I know that they'll find him and prosecute him. They moved me to a morgue and he was there, they brought him. He had his cream-in-tea eyes again. When the coroner (Sue Norton I think) uncovered my face, his eyes filled with tears and he went out into the hallway retching. But the last thing he had eaten was that macaroni and cheese which had been digested already, and his retches were dry. He identified me, and so did my father.  
My father consented to an autopsy and arranged for me to be cremated. I watched my funeral. They scattered my ashes into the wind and gave me a black marble headstone, surrounded with beautiful coloured flowers. He was there, crying. He put my favorite flowers, lilacs, on the top of my headstone. He sat by my grave for hours and hours, and eventually fell asleep on the earth in front of my grave.  
When he woke up, his eyes were that frozen steel blue. He laughed. And he danced on my grave.  
I wanted to hurt him. So badly. But nonbeings as I said, are less than air. I couldn't even hit him with a summer breeze. I would have cried if I still had eyes.  
But suddenly his eyes brown once more. He kissed my headstone and left Wesley Street Cemetery with tears still in his puffy bloodshot eyes.  
There you have it; that is how I died.  
My name was Tammy Salton and I love Shane Trow.  
And I am dead.  
I just wanted you to know, just someone to know, that I existed, and this is what happened. I don't want Shane to be arrested, but I want that thing that controlled him to be killed like I was. I want the Shane I love to live happily and I wish torture and pain to the thing that controls his body sometimes. Not to avenge myself, but as revenge for hurting Shane.  
I'm sorry if I scared you, I really am. I'll tell you it was a dream, if it'll make it any better.  
A nasty dream and nothing ever happened but I did exist.  
And maybe, maybe, if you could, as a nonbeing's wish, tell my father I loved him and I want him to live on? His name is James Salton.  
And now, I'll fade into whatever's next.  
'Bye now.


End file.
